Mr. Stitch

simultaneously pleased at not having to have to hurry to avoid the cold, or the rain, or mind-bending psychestorms, or the sharp-edged calcite hail that would come in late Summer. If anything, the low-rated families and well-off merchants and shopkeepers that represented the majority of the crowd seemed disinclined to waste the beauty of the Armistice by going inside at all, and if they could have waited in line until the sun was long set, and the late- night chill found its way back into Trowth, they probably would have.

“Have you heard much about this one, my boy?” Roger was asking him, as the two men settled into the plush chairs in the critics’ box.

“No, it’s new, isn’t it?” The theater was full of warm chatter, almost necessitating that Valentine shout to his companion. “Based on the poem?”

“That’s right,” Roger was saying, sipping at the complimentary punch provided in hot steaming bowls for the box seats. “Though I’ve heard-and mind you, you’re not to repeat this-that the writer, a Mr. Beckett, was also the unnamed collaborator on the Bone-Collector’s Daughter.”

“I don’t think I know that one.”

“Oh? Played at the Public about two years ago. Caused quite a stir, if I recall correctly, religiously outrageous and all that. At least, as outrageous as Canthi pantomime can be, if you take my meaning.”

Valentine did not, as he had paid very little attention to his literature classes in school but, not wanting to seem like the sort of man who had wasted a very expensive education, allowed that he did indeed take Roger’s meaning, and it was more than a little extraordinary that the play ran as long as it had.

“Quite right,” Roger replied. “Quite right, my boy. But you know, the crown is always hesitant to shut the theater down. I don’t know, I suppose you don’t remember it, but there was a play, ten or fifteen years ago. A silly thing, but it made a few jokes at the expense of our beloved Emperor-Word protect him and keep him! He had his men close it down after a week, declared it an affront to the crown, put it on the Black List. And wouldn’t you know, a month later and someone’s published it. Just printed up pamphlets of this script and sold them for pennies on streetcorners. He probably made a fortune.”

“People bought it?”

“Well, no one would admit to it, obviously. Sh, sh, it’s starting.” Roger had an unpleasant habit of talking during the performance, making snide and sometimes astute observations, or asking innocuous questions, and then shushing Valentine before he had a chance to respond. He also carried with him, to support his bulk, a heavy wooden walking stick, that he was perpetually tapping on the box’s railing as a way of showing his good favor. Still, there was something interesting about Roger’s perspective-his sense of history and structure served to inform what turned out to be an astonishingly deep text.

“See that? That’s a reference to the sharpsie riots. Oh, very clever.” Tap, tap, went the cane.

“Wh-”

“Shh, shh.”

Later:

“Ah! Did you catch that? The Minister of Defense is going to choke on his breakfast tomorrow!” Tap, tap, tap.

“You mean-”

“Shh, shh.”

All in all, the experience was both frustrating and strangely entertaining. Valentine found himself, at first, spending as much time craning his neck towards the other box seats in order to gauge the responses of the Families and Ministry members-the ones that Roger named as the butt of certain obscure jokes-as he spent watching the play itself. And despite all that, there was something about the piece, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, that struck him as being familiar. It wasn’t the story itself, which was clearly a dangerously accurate allegory for current imperial politics-he knew that one off the top of his head. It was something else, something to do with the structure of the language, some quality of sound or syntax that he had trouble shaking off.

And yet as the play progressed, Valentine became aware of a compelling spirit, as though beneath the social referents some deeper truth had been brought to light, and all the complexity, the humanity, the reality of the characters, seemed to shrink away in the shadow of that truth. That something was being revealed was an undeniable sensation, and it drew Valentines eye back to the stage, time and again, to watch the haggard face of the actor playing Theocles, whose voice changed from the throaty rasp of the soldier to the dread thunder of the wicked king, to the quiet horror of the man whose circumstances had outpaced him. Here was a man cast adrift from his own humanity; Theocles, in service to his nation, had lost touch with certain elements of his soul, and found what replaced them was bloody-mindedness and growing paranoia. All in all, Valentine found Theocles to be a far more compelling character than the actual, present emperor upon whom he was based.

When intermission came, he seized on the opportunity to stretch his legs, and it was while he walked in the lushly-appointed halls behind the Royal’s balconies that he ran into Skinner.

This was not literally true; for though Valentine had been carelessly eyeing the elaborate woodwork along the doorframes while he walked, and certainly would have crashed headfirst into anyone that had the misfortune of walking in the opposite direction, Skinner herself had a long and practiced sensitivity to the location of bodies in space. She heard Valentine’s carpet-muffled footsteps, and carefully stepped to the side as he approached.

“Valentine.”

The young man nearly stumbled. “Skinner! What are you doing here?”

Skinner permitted herself a small smile. “I heard there was a play tonight.”

“Oh, right. Well, right. Hey, did you notice the author? E. E. Beckett? You don’t think…that’s not El-I mean, that’s not our Beckett, right?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied, challenged now to keep a broad, self-satisfied grin off of her face. “Surely we’d have heard?”

“I wonder if it’s a relative.”

“Does he have relatives?”

“Younger brother, I think, in Khent-On-Stark. A bootmaker. Hm. I guess I should ask him? Maybe I shouldn’t. I won’t.” He seized her shoulders, all grins and good cheer. “But what are you doing here, I mean? I thought you’d left the city! And you don’t have a box up here, do you?”

“No, a friend is letting me use hers. Someone I think you know, actually. Isn’t Emilia Vie-Gorgon your cousin?”

“Third cousin. I-hm.”

Skinner could hear the frown in his voice. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Nothing, I just. She’s…how do you know Emilia?”

“She found out that I was in some distress after losing my job, and was good enough to offer some assistance. Why?” Her voice took on an edge as she spoke.

Valentine drew his friend to the side of the corridor and spoke in a low voice. He didn’t suspect Emilia was at this performance, but there was no telling what sorts of stray words might find their way back to her. “Nothing. It’s just. Emilia…I’ve known Emilia for a long time, Skinner, and she doesn’t have friends. She just wants things, and so she gets things. I mean, I love my cousin-“

“Enough, Valentine. I’m a grown-up. I can take care of myself. And I don’t recall very many people offering to help. If I have a friendship with Emilia…”

“I just think you should be careful, is all.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Skinner replied, coolly. “Now, I think you might want to find your seat. The show’s about to resume.”

“Yes. Right. Sorry.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Look, I am sorry. I don’t mean to…to be a busybody, or anything. I just. Was concerned.”

“It’s all well to be concerned now,” Skinner snapped. There was something, something ludicrously vulnerable about Valentine’s voice that roused her temper. “It’s all very well to be concerned that someone has decided to help me. Where was your concern when I was down to my last six pennies? Where was your concern when I was being thrown out of my house?”

“I didn’t know, look, I’m sorry, I didn’t know about your house…”